An Englishman in New England

Messages come to us in the strangest of ways. They float through the ether, searching for the right medium to be recieved, and always seem to arrive at just the right time. Flicking on to just the right bit of dialogue on TV, a book falling open to just the right part of the right chapter, overhearing the right part of a conversation on the train - most of what we encounter in these situations is just so much noise, but hey, even spam has to resonate with someone out there.

The catch is that you have to pay attention, which does take effort. Remember this when you find me huddled down in the bushes underneath your living room window with an ear-horn. Don't mind me - just looking for messages, that's me. Doo tee doo. I'll be off, then if that's how you feel about it. No, no, there's no need to call them, I'll leave. No, I'm not on that registry - yes it's the same name, but it's a completely different person. She told me she was 19!

My most recent message was of the overheard-convo-on-the-train variety. See, my pseudo-jobless marathon has given me a lot of time to ruminate on what kind of legacy I'd like to leave to the world. You know, besides several tonnes of pollutants in the atmosphere, a small Starbucks cup-shaped contribution to some landfill project, and a few gainfully-employed sweatshop children. We in the Western world all seem to manage that without trying, and ideally I'd like to produce something more with the fleeting quantum energy allotted to me, before I croak in an entropic return to chaos.

Having just concluded a rather enjoyable project helping a friend with his senior engineering thesis, and hearing the appreciation of my work, (actual quote "Ah, Jesus - I think I just shit myself. How much is he paying you again?"), I was wondering if maybe I should quit waiting to be involved in some radioactive spider biting/wife and family's murder by mobsters avenging/contact with turtles and a mutagenic substance incident preceding my debut in the crimefighting industry, and instead answer my calling as a graphic designer.

Mulling this over on the train yesterday, I overheard a conversation by some annoying type waffling on about something of huge significance to himself and pretty much noone else. Like I said before, just so much noise, however my ears perked up when he inadvertantly schlepped into my sphere of giving a fuck and mentioned that he used to be a graphic designer, but didn't enjoy spending so much time in front of a computer.

I'm ruminating upon this little revelation - it doesn't appear to be a deal-breaker, although I would like an occupation that doesn't preclude the lifegiving rays of our Sun in the line of duty once in a while. Perhaps I've found the perfect cover for the newest crimefighting vigilante, who is a borderline psychotically-mannered graphic designer by day and at night is the masked hero known only as. . .

The Englishman.

Now where can one find the nearest vat of mutagen and a turtle?